Calaveras y Ofrendas 2012 Calaveras y Ofrendas 2012 - Esperanza
Calaveras y Ofrendas 2012 Calaveras y Ofrendas 2012 - Esperanza
Calaveras y Ofrendas 2012 Calaveras y Ofrendas 2012 - Esperanza
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a publication of the <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace & Justice Center<br />
November <strong>2012</strong> | Vol. 25 Issue 9<br />
San Antonio, Tejas<br />
<strong>Calaveras</strong> y <strong>Ofrendas</strong> <strong>2012</strong>
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
2<br />
La Voz de<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
November <strong>2012</strong><br />
vol. 25 issue 9<br />
© <strong>2012</strong> <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace & Justice Center<br />
Editor<br />
Gloria A. Ramírez<br />
Editorial Assistance<br />
Alice Canestaro-Garcia,<br />
Adriana Netro<br />
Design Monica V. Velásquez<br />
Cover Artwork<br />
Above: Yeska, ASARO Arts Collective<br />
Below: Brandon Maldonado,<br />
www.brandonmaldonado.com<br />
La Voz Mail Collective<br />
Juan Diaz, Diana Fernandez,<br />
Gloria Hernández, Davina Kaiser, Eugene<br />
Roy Lee, Elpidia López, Gina Lee, Ray<br />
McDonald, María Medellin, Angie H. Merla,<br />
Adriana Netro, Jacobed Peña, Alison<br />
Reynolds, Mary Agnes Rodríguez, Juana<br />
Hilda Ruiz, Eloise Simentel, Argelia Soto &<br />
Lonnie Howard, Elva Pérez Treviño,<br />
Lucila Vicencio y MujerArtes<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Director<br />
Graciela I. Sánchez<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Staff<br />
Imelda Arismendez, Itza Carbajal,<br />
Verónica Castillo, Marisol Cortez,<br />
Jezzika Pérez, Beto Salas,<br />
Susana Segura, Monica V. Velásquez<br />
Conjunto de Nepantleras<br />
-<strong>Esperanza</strong> Board of Directors-<br />
Brenda Davis, Araceli Herrera, Rachel<br />
Jennings, Amy Kastely, Kamala Platt, Ana<br />
Ramírez, Gloria A. Ramírez, Rudy Rosales,<br />
Nadine Saliba, Graciela Sánchez<br />
• We advocate for a wide variety of social,<br />
economic & environmental justice issues.<br />
• Opinions expressed in La Voz are not<br />
necessarily those of the <strong>Esperanza</strong> Center.<br />
La Voz de <strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
is a publication of<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace & Justice Center<br />
922 San Pedro, San Antonio, TX 78212<br />
(on the corner of Evergreen Street)<br />
210.228.0201 • fax 210.228.0000<br />
www.esperanzacenter.org<br />
Inquiries/Articles can be sent to:<br />
lavoz@esperanzacenter.org<br />
Articles due by the 8th of each month<br />
Policy Statements<br />
* We ask that articles be visionary, progressive,<br />
instructive & thoughtful. Submissions must be<br />
literate & critical; not sexist, racist, homophobic,<br />
violent, or oppressive & may be edited for length.<br />
* All letters in response to <strong>Esperanza</strong> activities<br />
or articles in La Voz will be considered for<br />
publication. Letters with intent to slander<br />
individuals or groups will not be published.<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace & Justice Center is funded in part<br />
by the NEA, TCA, theFund, Astraea Lesbian Fdn<br />
for Justice, Coyote Phoenix Fund, AKR Fdn, Peggy<br />
Meyerhoff Pearlstone Fdn, The Kerry Lobel & Marta<br />
Drury Fund of Horizon’s Fdn, y nuestra buena gente.<br />
This November <strong>2012</strong> issue of La Voz de<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> is the 14 th annual <strong>Calaveras</strong> issue<br />
published by the <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace & Justice<br />
Center in San Antonio featuring satirical poems<br />
that target the living. Artwork and illustrations<br />
featuring death personified as skeletons,<br />
called “calaveras” or “calacas,” that<br />
are engaged in mischief or ordinary doings<br />
are also featured. This year most calaveras<br />
are written in Spanish –but not exclusively so.<br />
We are also continuing with a new tradition of<br />
“literary ofrendas” writing poems and tributes<br />
for the “dearly departed.” This issue also has<br />
stories for the Day of the Dead. Don’t forget<br />
to come by and celebrate that day with us on<br />
November 1st (see page 21). And, remember<br />
to make your voice heard, VOTE!<br />
Hey, you! Que pasa?<br />
You go to the dance, go to<br />
the game, go the bar,<br />
You don’t vote.<br />
Who do you think you are?<br />
It’s Election Day,<br />
It don’t look like rain.<br />
You don’t vote, you stay home,<br />
They screw you,<br />
then –don’t complain.<br />
Don’t think that some other day,<br />
You’ll go out to vote.<br />
I see Lady Death is here,<br />
And of you, she has taken note.<br />
Cuentos: Nicholas R. Moreno • Anna Marie Sánchez<br />
Calaveristas: Francisco Alarcón • Amokimous • Doña Lucia Bolanos • Erika Gutiérrez Campos •<br />
Veronica Castillo • Rocio Delgado • Julien Ekiaka • Norma Guzmán • Araceli Herrera • Nicholas R.<br />
Moreno • Dolores Zapata Murff • Adriana Netro • Elva Niebla • Ruben Olague • Caroline Rivera • Rita<br />
Urquijo-Ruiz • Don Enrique Sánchez • Elva Pérez Treviño Literary <strong>Ofrendas</strong>: Carolyn Atkins •<br />
Azul Barrientos • Dulce Benavides • Norma E. Cantú • Anita González • Dolores González Jarvis •<br />
Laura I. Rendón • Dave Stokes • Mariana Vásquez • Dee Zapata Murff Artwork: Carlos Barbarena<br />
• Norma E. Cantú • Graciela G. García • Amanda Haas • Keith Haring • Brandon Maldonado • Stella<br />
Marroquin • Elvia Niebla • Laura Rendón • Mary Agnes Rodríguez • Elva Pérez Treviño • Rita Urquijo-<br />
Ruiz • Remedios Varo • Yeska of ASARO Arts Collective, Oaxaca<br />
Calavera for Election Day<br />
Esta edición de La Voz de <strong>Esperanza</strong> de noviembre,<br />
<strong>2012</strong>, como siempre, se trata de <strong>Calaveras</strong>,<br />
la tradición mexicana de poesia satirica<br />
que le hace burla a los seres vivientes. Con<br />
esta edición cumplimos 14 años de calaveras.<br />
“<strong>Calaveras</strong>” tambien significa los dibujos o<br />
arte que representa “la muerte” en forma de<br />
esqueletos o “calacas” que hacen travesuras<br />
o cosas cotidianas. Otra tradición que hemos<br />
fomentado en La Voz es la “ofrenda literaria”<br />
que recuerda al fiel difunto con una poema o<br />
recuerdo. Este año tambien tenemos algunos<br />
cuentecitos para el Día de los muertos. No dejen<br />
de venir a la celebración del Dia de los<br />
muertos el primer día de noviembre (vea pagina<br />
21). Gozen de toda la edición y recuerden,<br />
SU VOTO ES SU VOZ!<br />
Don’t tell her you’re too busy,<br />
That you don’t care.<br />
Because she is coming after you,<br />
A horrible, very horrible affair.<br />
She’s lost her patience,<br />
Don’t make her shout.<br />
She’s tired that you<br />
don’t give a damn,<br />
You a winner, a loser<br />
something to think about.<br />
She’s right there behind you,<br />
Mary Agnes Rodríguez<br />
Be a good citizen, come on, Move!<br />
Because after you’re dead,<br />
your vote don’t count. –Nicholas R. Moreno<br />
ATTENTION VOZ READERS: If you have a correction you want to make on your mailing label please<br />
send it in to lavoz@esperanzacenter.org. If you do not wish to continue on the mailing list for whatever reason<br />
please notify us as well. La Voz is provided as a courtesy to people on the mailing list of the <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace<br />
and Justice Center. The subscription rate is $35 per year. The cost of producing and mailing La Voz has<br />
substantially increased and we need your help to keep it afloat. To help, send in your subscriptions, sign up as a<br />
monthly donor, or send in a donation to the <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace and Justice Center. Thank you. -GAR<br />
VOZ VISION STATEMENT: La Voz de <strong>Esperanza</strong> speaks for many individual, progressive voices who are<br />
gente-based, multi-visioned and milagro-bound. We are diverse survivors of materialism, racism, misogyny,<br />
homophobia, classism, violence, earth-damage, speciesism and cultural and political oppression. We are<br />
recapturing the powers of alliance, activism and healthy conflict in order to achieve interdependent economic/<br />
spiritual healing and fuerza. La Voz is a resource for peace, justice, and human rights, providing a forum for<br />
criticism, information, education, humor and other creative works. La Voz provokes bold actions in response to<br />
local and global problems, with the knowledge that the many risks we take for the earth, our body, and the dignity<br />
of all people will result in profound change for the seven generations to come.
y Nicholas R. Moreno<br />
Chulita’s great uncle, Tío<br />
Roberto, had always told<br />
her that there are many<br />
beautiful things in this world. He told her that some of the most beautiful things carry<br />
a heavy price. He said that to some of the most gorgeous things, the closer that you get,<br />
the farther away they appear to be. Chulita loved her great uncle, but sometimes she did<br />
not know what he was trying to say.<br />
Tío Roberto, her grandmother’s<br />
brother, worked outdoors. He was a carpenter.<br />
Chulita loved to see him in his<br />
work clothes, to feel his rough hands,<br />
and to be crushed by his loving hugs. He<br />
not only could put together buildings, but<br />
he made Chulita some of the finest furniture,<br />
dollhouses and wooden toys. In her<br />
child’s mind, she wondered what price<br />
Tío Roberto would have had to pay, if<br />
he had bought all these surprises for her.<br />
She was sure that it would have been a<br />
heavy price, indeed. It really didn’t matter<br />
to Chulita, because she knew that she<br />
didn’t have to pay a penny for them.<br />
The rain came first as a feeling.<br />
The air had changed. One could feel<br />
the coldness as drafts of air picked up<br />
leaves, papers and dust, as if dancing to<br />
mysterious, undulating Arabic rhythms.<br />
Chulita loved rain. Sometimes, she liked<br />
to stay inside, to get in bed and look at<br />
it through her window. Sometimes, she<br />
would spend so many hours looking outside, that people said that<br />
she looked like she was waiting for something wondrous to appear<br />
before her. At other times, she would run outside and begin<br />
to run around, skipping in circles with her outstretched arms.<br />
Within minutes, she would be soaked to the bone, with her grandmother<br />
screaming through the window, “Chiquitita, entra a la<br />
casa, you’re going to catch your death of cold.” She would obey<br />
and the grandmother, her abuelita, would then strip her naked and<br />
dry her with a huge towel.<br />
The smell had changed. One knew that it was raining somewhere.<br />
It wasn’t exactly clear where or how far away it was. The<br />
defiant sun was trying to shine as many extra rays as possible,<br />
before it would be usurped by a darker and more foreboding atmosphere.<br />
Chulita had noticed what appeared to be a gray, flickering<br />
sheet dropping from a bulging cloud several kilometers away.<br />
“Tio Roberto, is that rain falling there, see it, over there from that<br />
cloud?” She pointed her dainty finger and twisted her cherubic<br />
face, waiting for an answer.<br />
“Si, Chulita. That’s coming down on them, plenty hard.”<br />
“Is that where Tía Chabela lives? Did she hang out clothes to<br />
dry? Are they still going to come to see us and are you and Tío<br />
Raul still going to cook outside?” She always peppered her uncle<br />
with more questions than he could possibly answer.<br />
“Yes, they’ll come over since it’s<br />
not raining here. We sure wouldn’t<br />
want to cancel our barbeque cookout.<br />
That would be a heavy price to ask.”<br />
“Great,” she grinned, exposing<br />
where her two front teeth had just<br />
come in.<br />
Lightning could be seen dropping<br />
from the thunderclouds, as well as<br />
arching in crooked flashes haphazardly<br />
over to adjacent clouds.The accompanying<br />
roars sounded like the fearsome<br />
explosions of cannonade from<br />
a fast approaching army. A whirlwind<br />
from nowhere suddenly was picking<br />
up all the debris it encountered. The<br />
apparition twisted and twisted like a<br />
miniature cyclone. To Chulita, it appeared<br />
as if this tornado had stopped<br />
and had noticed her. It began to approach<br />
her and she let out a yelp, with<br />
goose bumps streaking across her<br />
arms and face. She ran towards the<br />
house, shouting, “Tío Roberto, is that thing going to hurt me?”<br />
He replied, “It won’t hurt you, not unless it picks up a water<br />
moccasin and throws it at you.” He grinned at her.<br />
“Don’t say that. I don’t want to go inside now. Right, Tío, I<br />
can stay out here with you?”<br />
“Yes, you can stay out here with me. If it rains, you and I<br />
will be over there under that carport. We won’t get wet. Abuelita<br />
would run out and whack us.”<br />
Chulita and Tío Roberto stayed outside and shared<br />
these moments together, talking about everything from playing,<br />
to school, to reading, to her favorite shows, to candy, and back<br />
to playing. They were sitting together on lawn chairs for what<br />
seemed to be an interminably long time. In actuality, it was an<br />
hour later when the first drops begin to fall. They heard the drops<br />
smack on the carport’s metal roof. When she looked up, a drop<br />
from the sky smashed across Chulita’s lips. “Tío Roberto, I’m<br />
wet. It’s gonna rain.”<br />
Several more big drops came, falling as if being parceled out<br />
in liquid clusters. A cold one hit Tío Roberto on the back of the<br />
neck. He jumped and shouted, “Let’s get under the carport. Dragging<br />
their lawn chairs, they ran and found a spot open next to their<br />
auto.“Let’s stay here,” suggested Tío Roberto. “It’ll pass in a few<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
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LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
4<br />
minutes, and then we can go inside.”<br />
“After this, can we go get an ice cream? You always said that<br />
you saved your money for a rainy day,” her pleading eyes imagining<br />
the cherry vanilla cone that was her favorite.<br />
“Yes, I did say that,” Tío Roberto laughed.<br />
It was the ice balls that begin to slam on the roof, on the yard,<br />
and onto the street that caused Tío Roberto to grimace. At first,<br />
the ice balls fell and bounced lightly on the still dry surface of the<br />
earth. They fell as if they were the Prelude to a symphony.<br />
Tío Roberto looked at the little girl who loved the rain and they<br />
stayed right where they were to watch the show. Suddenly, with a<br />
burst of anger, the sky unleashed a shower of large, white balls that<br />
came crashing down with a roar. The cascade blasted the houses,<br />
seemingly perforating the area<br />
into hundreds of battered pieces.<br />
It increased in intensity, bouncing<br />
at the feet of the great uncle<br />
and his niece. The abuse crashed<br />
on the metal roof that divided<br />
them from this assault from the<br />
sky.<br />
Chulita was jumping with<br />
excitement. It was just minutes<br />
ago that they were sitting out<br />
there on the grass. Now, she was<br />
witnessing a violence such like<br />
she had never ever seen. The vehicles<br />
in the neighborhood were<br />
undergoing a severe mauling.<br />
The pounding was relentless.<br />
The hail had usurped the grass<br />
and the pavement, bouncing into<br />
a freezing blanket of ice. The assault<br />
stopped as rapidly as it had<br />
started, and the sky was returned<br />
to the rain clouds, which had<br />
now amassed, as if to prepare for<br />
an imminent onslaught.<br />
“You ready to go inside?<br />
Let’s go inside,” Tío Roberto<br />
asked Chulita.<br />
“You want to go inside?”<br />
Chulita responded. She thought,<br />
“Wouldn’t it be better to stay and be under the roof of this carport?”<br />
Her question was answered by the return of the big drops.<br />
This time the rainfall started as if it had the authority to unleash<br />
itself on Nature below. The falling liquid began splashing around<br />
the two stranded underneath the carport. The wetness and coldness<br />
were sensed by Chulita, the noises and the smell of the water hitting<br />
the ground instilling pleasure into the little girl who loved rain.<br />
She liked the way the rocks glistened, and how the little streams<br />
appeared to flow out of nowhere. She thought of the water beads<br />
on the plants as they swayed in the wind, and of the sogginess of<br />
the grass everywhere being soaked to the mud and to the roots.<br />
Chulita delighted in donning her raincoat at school, and walking<br />
home under an umbrella and feeling the spray of water and<br />
mist on her face. She always wondered why two people who never<br />
greeted each other always seemed to smile and nod when approaching<br />
each other under their umbrellas. She liked pretending<br />
her grown-up ways, greeting them very cordially, “Slippery day<br />
today, don’t you think?”<br />
Her spirit was never dampened when the weather was dark<br />
and overcast with rain falling continuously for day after day. She<br />
felt that water fell on people to flush out their bad thoughts and to<br />
cleanse them of their bad feelings. She liked to stop on the bridge<br />
and watch the water in the brook gurgling and dribbling onto the<br />
rocks, and see the grass and the logs that floated down beneath her<br />
shoes. She loved to pull back from the street to barely avoid being<br />
splashed by cars stumbling by.<br />
The big drops now started to arrive in a fury. The downpour<br />
had become a tumultuous outpouring. Any thought that Tío Roberto<br />
had had of rushing to the house with his little girl had to be<br />
postponed. The rain was no longer falling down, but had changed<br />
its direction and was now flying<br />
sideways with gusts of wind.<br />
“Get in the car,” yelled Tío<br />
Roberto. Chulita stood there<br />
jumping while Tío Roberto<br />
covered her, and started fumbling<br />
for his keys. He clumsily<br />
opened the door and they both<br />
jumped in. They took stock of<br />
themselves and laughed when<br />
they realized that they had barely<br />
escaped a serious drenching.<br />
They were breathing hard,<br />
when they saw the grandmother<br />
waving desperately from the<br />
window.<br />
Tío Roberto signaled to<br />
her, “We’re going to be OK out<br />
here.” Abuelita was looking out<br />
with her hands on the window<br />
frame when she was almost<br />
blinded by lightning, flashing<br />
brilliantly, an instantaneous explosion<br />
of thunder horrifying<br />
her out of her wits. The detonation<br />
shocked the two souls in<br />
the car, and the little girl and<br />
her uncle hugged each other in<br />
terror.<br />
“Santa Maria,” the grandmother<br />
screeched. “Dios Mio, may God have mercy.” She trembled<br />
inside the house and tears were about to rain out of her eyes.<br />
Not knowing which way to turn, she turned back to the window.<br />
It was now being splattered by the torrential storm so hard that it<br />
became impossible for her to see outside. She peered through the<br />
glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of her desesperados inside that<br />
automobile.<br />
For two hours the deluge raged, slamming the city with its contemptuous<br />
vengeance. Tío Roberto and his Chulita could see the<br />
street become a river of streaming water. An assortment of debris<br />
and tree limbs floated by, disappearing downstream. Chulita had<br />
noticed that the water was lapping at the tires and felt that her<br />
shoes would be soaked if they had to make an escape from there.<br />
Inside the house, Abuelita was on the telephone with Tía Chabela.<br />
Abuelita was being told that everyone was safe, but that a tree had<br />
cracked and had fallen on their carport and against the side of the<br />
house. They said that the rising water was surging at the sides of
their house and that they were being trapped inside. Abuelita was<br />
telling them that Chulita and Tío Roberto were spending the storm<br />
in their car outside. She stated that she couldn’t understand how it<br />
hadn’t occurred to them to come back to the house. She was telling<br />
them that the water was now starting to abate, when suddenly<br />
she lost contact and the lamps in the room went out. She shrieked<br />
and went to the window, and could see her two beloved in the car<br />
below greeting her with their palms.<br />
Tío Roberto looked at his companion and gave her one of his<br />
smiles: “Are you ready to get out and go in the house?” he inquired.<br />
“Yeah, let’s make a run for it. We’re going to get wet and our<br />
shoes are going to get wet,” she expressed herself.<br />
“We can dry ourselves after we get in the house,” he replied<br />
to her. “Your shoes aren’t going to get wet. I’ll carry you. Come<br />
on, let’s go.” He emerged into the dampness, placing his shoes<br />
right into cold, gushing mud and water and turned to retrieve his<br />
niece, who was waiting with outstretched arms. Tío Roberto was<br />
a jolly man, very friendly and congenial. He was thoughtful and<br />
outspoken. In that car, he had had plenty of time to think. Chulita<br />
saw that this happy man was definitely annoyed. She understood<br />
that something had gotten his interest and attention. She knew that<br />
when something was on his mind for which he had great concern,<br />
he wouldn’t hesitate to express his feelings. Chulita loved her great<br />
uncle, but sometimes she did not know what he was trying to say.<br />
In that car, he had had plenty of time to think.<br />
They were being scolded by the abuelita when they entered the<br />
house. She told him to take his shoes off and not to track mud on<br />
her carpet. Chulita had to go and change her clothing before she<br />
was allowed to rejoin them. When she appeared from her room,<br />
they invited her to have some caldo with them, a hot sumptuous<br />
soup of beef and vegetables. Delicious food was their tradition<br />
and good traditions played a big part in their lives. They enjoyed<br />
their dinner while the rain outside seemed to retreat into a misty<br />
sprinkle, caressing the house as if to ask forgiveness for the merciless<br />
dousing it had unleashed.<br />
Tío Roberto got up and began to talk. He talked of<br />
the severe damage that the storm had done to this sector of their<br />
city. He talked of the damage that the hail had done to all of the<br />
automobiles that had been caught outside in the storm. He talked<br />
of the harm done by the fallen trees and the downed power lines.<br />
But most of all, he saved his wrath for the severe damage caused<br />
by the flooding of the streets and of the houses in this part of town.<br />
He said that it was all completely and totally unnecessary. He<br />
shouted that it was all the fault of the people who stayed home on<br />
election days, when they were supposed to go out to vote. He paid<br />
taxes and all of the people here paid taxes, but where did all of the<br />
money go? He said that he knew where the money had gone. All<br />
of the people in the other neighborhoods had gone out to vote to<br />
elect representatives who would take his money and build perfect<br />
drainage systems for their neighborhoods. He would defy anyone<br />
who could show him flooding at this moment in those fancy neighborhoods.<br />
He cursed voter apathy.<br />
He said that today they paid a heavy price for being very lazy<br />
and staying away from the polls on Election Day. Now they were<br />
faced with paying the heavy price for flood and mud damage with<br />
money that they needed for food and health care for the families.<br />
He let out a stream of obscenities at those people who never got<br />
out to vote.<br />
Chulita loved her great uncle, but sometimes she did not<br />
know what he was trying to say. She had gone to the window and<br />
was looking outside. Her mind thought of the wet wooden green<br />
benches down at the park, and the two little old ladies who would<br />
put down a piece of plastic to sit down and talk. She was thinking<br />
about the people who would walk down the street with newspapers<br />
over their heads, and those without umbrellas who would have running<br />
noses and sniffles tomorrow. She was thinking about the frogs<br />
jumping in the brook and the bubbles caused by the water spilling<br />
over the rocks. Only light drops were now falling. She closed her<br />
eyes when the sunlight caught her face and she smiled and felt<br />
good about all of Nature. When she opened them, she stood there<br />
in awe and let out a scream.<br />
Her uncle yelled, “What’s the matter, Chulita.” Chulita didn’t<br />
answer, but her running footsteps could be heard coming down<br />
the hallway. She appeared, wide-eyed, and accelerated towards the<br />
door, opening it, disappearing outside.<br />
“Chulita,” Abuelita screamed, now running after her.<br />
Chulita had already made it to the yard and was standing in<br />
the water looking at the sky. Her expression was that of enchantment.<br />
Chulita was looking away at what she thought was a gift<br />
from God. Her heart had never seen Nature provide a sight more<br />
resplendent, more astonishingly beautiful. What she saw made all<br />
the moments that followed stand still. Against a very dark sky,<br />
the sun’s rays shining brilliantly behind her, they arched across<br />
the heavens, glowing, shimmering, all the magnificent colors from<br />
red, orange, yellow to blue, green, indigo and violet. She marveled<br />
at that magic beauty, those unbelievable arcs of color, the stunning<br />
splendor of that spectacular afternoon rainbow. Tío Roberto and<br />
Abuelita were entranced too. She knew of their presence beside<br />
her, but had not seen them. “Increible, que hermosura,” exclaimed<br />
Abuelita, “Increible, a more gorgeous sight I certainly have never<br />
ever seen before.”<br />
These spinning, dizzying moments had an effect on Chulita.<br />
Everything that she had thought, smelled, seen and heard today<br />
was all coming together within her soul. Her eyelids were closed.<br />
Small drops began to fall. A few fell on Chulita. She hugged her<br />
uncle warmly when he lifted her gently to carry her inside.<br />
“Please don’t let it end. My uncle said that we paid a very high<br />
price for it,” she prayed. All that she knew was that it hadn’t cost<br />
her a penny. u<br />
Bio: Nicolas R. Moreno graduated from U.T.-Austin with a B.S. in<br />
Electrical Engineering and a Masters in Architecture. He deeply<br />
encourages everyone to start voting.<br />
VOTE!<br />
VOTE!<br />
VOTE!<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
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LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
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Homenaje a los espiritus<br />
que me cuidan<br />
Mamá, Papá, Tio Nacho y Peter<br />
Y a todos ustedes los espíritus<br />
Que me acompañan en mi destino<br />
Les doy las gracias<br />
Y les mando bendiciones en su camino<br />
Porque sé que siempre están conmigo<br />
Los tengo siempre junto a mi<br />
Y por eso los bendigo<br />
Cuando un favor les pido<br />
Siempre dicen, “si”<br />
Me calman mis sustos<br />
Y con eso me ajusto<br />
Me sostienen al caerme<br />
y mi voz levantan<br />
y mi espíritu abrillantan<br />
En este Día de los Muertos<br />
Mi amor por ustedes sigue abierto<br />
De mi alma a las suyas<br />
Su recuerdo aún me arrulla<br />
Finalmente sé que algun día<br />
Los encontraré<br />
En el calor del viento.<br />
–Laura I. Rendón<br />
Los Manteles (The Tablecloths)<br />
Memorias come pouring forth<br />
With my tears<br />
As I sort through your manteles.<br />
Tantos años<br />
Of family and friends gathered<br />
Around your cocina and dining room tables.<br />
Laughter, fun, good homemade comida.<br />
Lots to talk about<br />
Good jokes, some jabs<br />
Pero siempre reunidos.<br />
www.brandonmaldonado.com<br />
Your famous potato salad<br />
Banana pudding in the little gold cups<br />
Y el arroz<br />
Y los frijoles.<br />
Who could forget?<br />
Todos remember<br />
Times that are now gone.<br />
We smile through our tears.<br />
And think of you, Mamá.<br />
–Anita González<br />
Lotus Recuerdo para Mary Stokes 1920-2011<br />
My Mom, Mary Stokes, didn’t know it, but she was a Buddhist. In fact, she was a<br />
Bodhisattva. She reached enlightenment, but chose to remain here on the wheel of life<br />
as an inspiration to those of us who are still struggling with the pain of existence.<br />
She must have considered her work on Earth finished, because she departed<br />
for Nirvana on June 9, 2011. We who remain here on the wheel are grateful for her<br />
guidance, acceptance, and the example of unqualified love she gave us.<br />
Her attributes were those of the five colors of the Lotus blossom, the Buddhist<br />
symbol of purity, spiritual awakening and faithfulness. The blue Lotus represents the<br />
victory of spirit over wisdom. The white Lotus stands for mental purity and<br />
spiritual perfection. The purple Lotus with its eight pedals reminds us of the<br />
eightfold path. The pink Lotus is the Lotus of the Lord Buddha. The red Lotus<br />
symbolizes the heart, love and compassion.<br />
That was my Mom, the Bodhisattva.<br />
–Dave Stokes
LA CHAMANA<br />
se convirtió en<br />
jaguar<br />
Adios muchachas que amores<br />
Me brindaban con afán<br />
Ya no me echarán mis flores,<br />
Ya no me enamorarán…<br />
–Funebre Despedida Broadsheet<br />
Willie Champion 1933-<strong>2012</strong><br />
The <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace and Justice Center staff and community express<br />
our most profound sympathies to Teresa Champion and the Champion<br />
family on the recent passing of reknowned San Antonio flamenco<br />
guitarist, Willie Champion, “El Curro.” Willie and Teresa, who were<br />
married 57 years, are San Antonio cultural icons who began a tradition<br />
of flamenco music and dance in San Antonio that has impacted<br />
thousands of children and families throughout our city –particularly<br />
in the Southside and Westside. “El Curro” leaves behind his many<br />
fans, students, two daughters, 5 grandchildren, 11 great<br />
grandchildren, other family members and a legacy that will<br />
continue. San Antonio will greatly miss “El Curro’s” music<br />
and great syle. Que en paz descanse.<br />
“Chavela” Vargas<br />
Isabel Vargas Lozano 1919 - <strong>2012</strong><br />
Ella no se guardaba nada, se daba toda, real y completa. La dama del<br />
espíritu intacto tuvo una vida plena. Ella no llevaba a juicios, ni se ponía<br />
banderas. Ella llevaba su propia bandera –La Bandera de Chavela.<br />
Los recuerdos le revoloteaban entre más llegaba la edad. Unos tristes<br />
y otros agraciados. Radiantes y robustas carcajadas, canciones, elíxires<br />
y hermosísimas mujeres. También dolor, denuncias y reclamos se le<br />
escapaban del ánima, especialmente al evocar a la niña Chavela, rechazada<br />
y sola que nació en Costa Rica.<br />
En México, el país que la prohijó, llegó a la notoriedad, después de<br />
combatir tantas y diferentes batallas. Aunque prontamente se desvaneció<br />
todo. Estrangulada en el licor... Beoda, casi veinte años.<br />
Pero un milagroso día “El último trago” llegó, su abstinencia la<br />
resucitó. Ese brío con el que nació afortunadamente la salvó. Reencarnó<br />
en su mismo cuerpo, y resurgió del infierno, más excelsa que nunca. Sus<br />
queridos amigos y adoradores la protegieron, la auxiliaron, la entendieron,<br />
la esperaron. El estupor llegó hasta España, e incluso lució un homenaje a<br />
García Lorca.<br />
Los años siguieron pasando entre solera, melodías y alabanzas.<br />
Y un Domingo lluvioso La Chamana partió, se fue con secretos<br />
acurrucados en su misericordia. Una concurrencia se<br />
habrá fusionado para darle la bienvenida a ese lugar, al<br />
que todos vamos: José Alfredo Jiménez, Agustín Lara,<br />
Álvaro Carrillo, Tomás Méndez, Arturo Bribiesca, Toña<br />
La Negra, y hasta la misma “La Macorina”, Carlos<br />
Monsivais, su querido Diego y su adorada Frida entre<br />
cientos más.<br />
De su voz salían oraciones que se hincaban ante el<br />
dolor. Hasta siempre amada Chavela.<br />
–Azul Barrientos<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
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LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
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It sounds CRAZY—but it all goes together. Let me explain.<br />
First, the molcajete made with natural volcanic stone<br />
offers a grinding surface that is used with the tejolote,<br />
or pestle. A molcajete is a must-have tool for authentic<br />
moles, salsas and fresh guacamole. The molcajete I have<br />
belonged to my mother who passed away in 1999. I found it<br />
when I was cleaning my mother’s house in 2004 after both,<br />
my father and my brother, Dennis died that year. I was going<br />
through boxes in the garage that belonged to my mother filled<br />
with clothes, china, jewelry, a bible that belonged to my father<br />
and coins galore.You can imagine how I felt as I opened each<br />
box. It was like someone did not care about what my parents<br />
had left behind. I felt ashamed of how my mother’s house was<br />
left, but that’s another story.<br />
I opened each box finding cherished items that my mother<br />
loved: a green glass vase that she always had on her bedroom<br />
dresser, several religious statues, my father’s bible with a holder,<br />
and then I saw it –the molcajete. When I unpacked it–it felt like<br />
my mother was in the garage with me.<br />
The molcajete was taken back to my house in Corpus Christi.<br />
We moved several times until we finally moved to Laredo, TX.<br />
The molcajete and other items of my parents had been traveling<br />
with me for 6 years. Now, my molcajete had a place in my kitchen’s<br />
blue counter. Her molcajete is used on a daily basis because I<br />
love salsa. It is surrounded by beautiful Mexican women carrying<br />
baskets and flowers. The green glass vase also has a place in my<br />
dramatic red dining room along with my mother’s dining room<br />
furniture. I see my mother’s items everyday and I think about her<br />
daily. She was the funniest person I knew. She would make the<br />
whole room laugh with her jokes and laughter.<br />
Now, about our dog, Rhino. A west highland white terrier that<br />
we purchased about 12 years ago, Rhino was my husband’s baby<br />
boy who followed Rick everywhere, even to the bathroom. Rick<br />
would take Rhino to his office until he started wandering away.<br />
Rhino would always spend the night on top of our bed. On Sunday<br />
Feb 6, 2011 Rhino was breathing heavily. We knew something<br />
was not right. Rick gave him some medication and he went<br />
to sleep. We agreed we would take him to the vet on Monday<br />
The Super Bowl game was going to start and Rick wanted<br />
a spread of snacks, so I made some tacos, dips and fresh salsa<br />
Epitafio<br />
Junto a mi siempre has estado<br />
Me acompañas al dormir<br />
y tambien al levantar<br />
Eres mi muerte querida.<br />
Aquí te tengo un altar.<br />
La vida ha sido muy hermosa<br />
temiendo siempre morir<br />
pero si has de llegar a mí<br />
alegre me quiero ir.<br />
Con la música en el alma<br />
un arpa, y una jarana<br />
En mi Veracruz querido<br />
ahi me quiero morir.<br />
Pero si de amor muriera<br />
en cualquier parte del mundo<br />
No te preocupes Catrina<br />
entierrame en el mar profundo.<br />
–Lucia Bolanos<br />
El molcajete de mi ma d r e<br />
using fresh chile pequin from my backyard. While I was making<br />
the salsa in the molcajete I felt something/or someone around<br />
me. The salsa’s aroma made me think of my mother and how she<br />
made the same salsa. I felt her presence in my kitchen and felt at<br />
peace. I did not let Rick know how I was feeling about Rhino. I<br />
had been telling Rick that Rhino looked old and tired and that he<br />
needed to be prepared for his death.<br />
The day ended and Rick carried Rhino<br />
up the stairs laying him on our bed. Max,<br />
our 125 lb dog, and Henry, my rescued<br />
one-eyed cat, followed up the stairs. We all<br />
went to sleep. Around 2ish, I felt Rhino<br />
jump off the bed. I woke up and woke<br />
up Rick. He carried Rhino downstairs to<br />
go outside and do his thing. When Rhino<br />
walked back into the living room, he collapsed. Rick picked him<br />
up and carried him up the stairs turning on my bedside lamp. He<br />
told me Rhino was dying. We covered him with a towel and Rick<br />
held him like a baby. We both started to cry. Rhino died that<br />
night in Rick’s arms as I held on to Rick…<br />
Max and Henry were also awake and knew something had<br />
happened. We laid Rhino next to Max in his bed and Max put his<br />
head next to Rhino’s body. He seemed to know what had happened.<br />
Max laid his head down and moaned. Now, I think about<br />
that day and how it ended----with my mother’s presence. She was<br />
here to comfort me and to take our dog with her.<br />
– Dolores González Jarvis
La contadora<br />
Me paso todo el año<br />
pensando en escribir,<br />
la sombra de Calacas me reclama,<br />
“piensa mejor en morir”;<br />
¡bah! desde que empecé a razonar<br />
me he burlado de la Muerte.<br />
Todo está en el tocadero<br />
y gran porcentaje en la suerte.<br />
Podemos arguir<br />
hasta ponernos morados,<br />
al fin y al cabo...<br />
ya estamos todos contados.<br />
oops!<br />
www.carlosbarberena.com<br />
De la ubre federal<br />
le gusta mamar y dar topes<br />
no quiere los reglamentos,<br />
mas le encantan los billones.<br />
El becerro quiere leche,<br />
hay que darle de beber.<br />
¡Quiero, pienso pa’ mi vaca!,<br />
¿Cuándo lo van a saciar?<br />
Los trucos que usa el Gobe<br />
para conseguir su fin.<br />
El hombre es ufano, ubicuo<br />
y cuando le conviene usa –oops!<br />
Se llevó la Catrina<br />
al que quería ser Catrín.<br />
Luz de velas<br />
Cuatro cirios alrededor del muertito,<br />
centinelas del finado, antigua costumbre.<br />
Coronas, macetas, floreros repletos de flores<br />
y lo más indispensable, ¡una llorona!.<br />
Cuando llegaba la calma, comenzaba lo mejor:<br />
mucha comida, toda clase de platillos que<br />
familiares, amistades y vecinos contribuian.<br />
¡Gran comilona en honor de La Catrina!<br />
Inhumación<br />
Nadie quiere morirse hoy en día<br />
–cuesta mucho y no te fían.<br />
Hay que planear el suceso<br />
–alcabo quedará nomás el hueso.<br />
Las personas educadas pueden aguantar el costo<br />
–a los que no tienen dónde caerse, ni siquiera el rostro.<br />
Por lo tanto, hay que aprender y tenerlo bien sabido<br />
que calaca siempre le cae al que anda desprevenido.<br />
Dos mil doce<br />
Un año muy importante para toda la ralea<br />
por ningún motivo dejen que nos lleve la marea.<br />
“La Catrina” anda recordando a los que no van a votar<br />
es importante que voten, no se vayan a pasear.<br />
¡Vamos a Votar!<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA •<br />
Nov <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
–Amanda Haas<br />
¿Prieta o Guera?<br />
Hace tiempo me pregunto,<br />
¿cómo era la Gran Dama?<br />
Nos burlamos en la tierra<br />
de la que tiene gran fama.<br />
¿Era alta o chaparrita,<br />
tenía curvas o era gordita?<br />
No me atrevo a hechar piropos<br />
a mi Chula Huesudita.”<br />
www.brandonmaldonado.com<br />
9
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
10<br />
–Elva Pérez Treviño<br />
CALAVERitas<br />
de Doña Lucia Bolanos<br />
Un fantasma me dijo<br />
Si no te portas bien<br />
Te voy a dar una zumba<br />
Y te me vas a la tumba.<br />
Un día estaba lloviendo<br />
Y que se viene un ciclón<br />
Pero cuando llegue a mi casa…<br />
No era mi casa!!<br />
Era el panteón!!!<br />
Cuando tienes un problema<br />
La cabeza se te pone dura<br />
Y si no se te compone<br />
Te lleva a la sepultura.<br />
CA LA VE RI TA Pa’ las del “<strong>Esperanza</strong> Center”<br />
La huesuda anda buscando<br />
alguien con quien tener “fun”;<br />
le dijeron que allá en la <strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
hay chamacas de a montón.<br />
No perdió tiempo la ingrata,<br />
pa’ pronto y a paso veloz<br />
se arrancó con todo y los huesos,<br />
jorongo, guitarra y su voz.<br />
Se quedó con el ojo cuadrado,<br />
al mirar tanta dulce belleza<br />
y entre tantas chicuelas, la ingrata<br />
nunca pudo asentar cabeza.<br />
Ahora en el panteón solita<br />
baila al son de un huapango,<br />
recordando que allá en la esperanza<br />
las chicas la siguen esperando.<br />
–Adriana Netro<br />
“Al Muerto le dió frio” –un cuentecito<br />
La noche muy fría, el recién enterrado dejó el cementerio y se fué a casa a pie.<br />
Esperándolo nadie, dormió feliz en su cama de muerte.<br />
Como su muerte fue violenta y inesperada, no se dió cuenta que había sido balaciado<br />
por un hombre celoso y con gran rencor. Se iba a su bar favorito y tomaba solo, ningun<br />
amigo le saludaba o platicaban con él, como si fuera invisible.<br />
Con cada noche, la mesa llena de botellas, le entraba una tristeza y un presentimiento<br />
ominoso y espantoso y le entraba un frío profundo, hasta los huesos.<br />
Una noche, un buen amigo lo vió, y se sentó con él despues de un abrazo. El muerto le<br />
contó de su tristeza y pesar. Su amigo le contó que hacian dos semanas que un hombre lo<br />
mató cuando dormía. Hasta ese momento realizó que habia muerto.<br />
Sonrió y dío gracias al amigo y con faz de serenidad se fué desvaneciendo y<br />
nunca fué visto más.Y colorín, colorado, este cuento se a acabado.<br />
–Anna Marie Sánchez<br />
Estaba comiendo chile<br />
Y se me atoró una raja<br />
Pa’ cuando me di cuenta<br />
Ya estaba yo en la mortaja.<br />
Dice Pepita que un día<br />
Cuando venía de la escuela.<br />
Oyó que alguien gritaba<br />
Y no ¡Pues que era su abuela!<br />
La muerte la iba arrastrando<br />
Y la metió en la cajuela.<br />
Cuando era yo chiquita<br />
Corria por todo el barrio<br />
Y mi abuela me decia.<br />
Mija llevate el Rosario<br />
Que si te encuentra la muerte<br />
Puede llevarte al calvario.<br />
Si tienes una tristeza y<br />
Te metes en un cajón<br />
Para cuando te des cuenta<br />
Te encuentras en el panteón.<br />
Elva Pérez<br />
Treviño
20<br />
12<br />
Estaban todos los Dreamers armando un relajo<br />
la huesuda llegó y a todos se los llevó detajo.<br />
Todos asustados y temerosos –no se reianpero<br />
la pelona, ¡ahhh como se divertía¡.<br />
Al poco rato el miedo se les quitó<br />
y la Panchita se les arrimó<br />
pero, cuando se enteraron<br />
desde el oscuro lugar<br />
que su sueño se realizó.<br />
Fué tanto el desmadre que se armó<br />
que hasta la huesuda se asustó<br />
y a toditos los regresó<br />
para seguir realizando su sueño.<br />
–Veronica Castillo<br />
Obama and Romney were talking<br />
about the future election<br />
“the voters are ready to tell us;<br />
they’re gonna make the selection”<br />
The voters were cold and undecided<br />
They didn’t like the voter I.D.,<br />
Didn’t like the immigration proposals,<br />
Didn’t like the economy’s lead.<br />
Calaca was watching the news<br />
when something caught her attention.<br />
It said that Romney and Obama<br />
would have a big confrontation.<br />
I have my ballot, said calaca<br />
my vote the winner will have;<br />
No need to worry, my fellas<br />
you’ll know my favorite one.<br />
Everyone saw when calaca<br />
dropped the vote in the can.<br />
Both candidates were excited.<br />
Both wanted to be her no. 1 fan.<br />
This candidate is now in heaven<br />
or maybe he is just in hell.<br />
Truth is that calaca is enjoying him<br />
that, everyone knows well!!<br />
– adriana netro<br />
Sonavera by<br />
Rita Urquijo-Ruiz<br />
La Voz de <strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
A ella la adoro por ser tan divina<br />
Compongo éstos mis versos<br />
Aunque les parezcan perversos<br />
La calaca tiene tilica la fama<br />
A mi no me importa<br />
la flaca fama de la dama<br />
Vino en hora buena y se lo pilló<br />
Ese villano se humilló<br />
Reina de los muertos eres bella<br />
Ahora te doy una estrella<br />
–“Amokimous”<br />
La Señora Cegadora se encontraba con dolor<br />
supo que estaba en San Anto un joven acupunturista.<br />
“Con su terapia y agujas quíteme este dolor”<br />
“no por hacerle un desaire, usted ha de comprender<br />
le falta carnita en sus huesos para las agujas sostener”.<br />
Llena de ira y dolor Calacas se lo llevó,<br />
se lo llevó hasta la China y nunca jamás él volvió.<br />
Y que se le ocurre a Norma<br />
este año jubilarse<br />
la nación ya se transforma<br />
vimos a veinte graduarse<br />
Su cometido ha cumplido<br />
de doctorar dos decenas<br />
de estudiantes cometidos<br />
a romper nuestras cadenas<br />
¿Cómo en grande celebrar<br />
a grandiosa profesora?<br />
¿Cómo podemos hablar<br />
de nuestra amiga y mentora?<br />
Ya que le encantan las fiestas<br />
un convivio organizamos<br />
en un simposio de testas<br />
así todo comenzamos<br />
–Enrique Sánchez<br />
–Elvia Niebla –Norma Cantú –Laura Rendón<br />
–Yeska, ASARO Arts Collective<br />
Sus estudiantes brillantes<br />
abrieron el gran evento<br />
cerró un corrido galante<br />
todo mundo bien contento<br />
Vinieron de todos lados<br />
A hablar bien de su influencia<br />
La Doctora Aída Hurtado<br />
Hizo sentir su presencia<br />
Norma Alarcón se lució<br />
Hablando de las tejanas<br />
“—Ni modo,” nos recordó,<br />
así son nuestras hermanas<br />
Para hacerle su homenaje<br />
Nos reunió El <strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
Esa noche tal paisaje<br />
Se llenaba de añoranza<br />
En la fiesta que siguió<br />
Rusty y Coquis nos cantaron<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA Nov <strong>2012</strong> • Vol. 25 Issue 9 • Page 14<br />
20<br />
12<br />
En San Anto se decía<br />
Que llegó feliz la Flaca<br />
Murmuraba, se sacudía,<br />
Sus huesos como matracas.<br />
¿Qué buscaba la Calaca?<br />
¡A políticos honrados!<br />
En el caos ella aplaca<br />
A fulanos bien sentados<br />
De pronto salió Joaquin<br />
O a lo mejor fué Julian<br />
“Aqui te agarro chiquitin,”<br />
Se dijo con gran afán,<br />
“Ya veras que me muevo;<br />
Espérame un ratitito,<br />
Que primero me llevo<br />
a uno de los Cuatitos.”<br />
Mitt Romney se unió a la lucha<br />
Y sonriéndose preguntó,<br />
“¿Qué no me quieres flacucha?”<br />
Y con el dedo apuntó.<br />
“Escucha mis dientes,<br />
Politicos honrados,”<br />
Dijo la Muerte sonriente,<br />
“Buscaré por otro lados.”<br />
–Norma E. Cantú<br />
Su destino fué plantar e ir con la naturaleza.<br />
Lo que sale de la tierra lo aceptó como proeza.<br />
Cultivaba toda planta que caía en su poder y con<br />
gusto él lo hacía de mañana al atardecer,<br />
Se topó con “La Catrina” cuando él andaba regando y<br />
del susto la bañó cuando ella venia cantando ;<br />
“Me arruinaste mi vestido y también mi maquillaje,<br />
ahora me toca a mí llevarte en un largo viaje”.<br />
–Enrique Sánchez<br />
La alegría no se extinguió<br />
Hasta que se desvelaron<br />
A las seis de la mañana<br />
cuando todo estaba escueto<br />
llegó corriendo la ufana<br />
moviendo el gran esqueleto<br />
“—Hora verás doctorcita<br />
lo preparada que vengo<br />
a llevarte a tu tumbita<br />
solita yo te entretengo.”<br />
“—N’ombre Catrina no puedo<br />
ya me voy para el Mid-West<br />
me espera mi nuevo ruedo<br />
ay nos veremos después.”<br />
– con mucho cariño<br />
de parte de Rita E.<br />
Urquijo-Ruiz
La Voz DE<br />
ESPERanza <strong>2012</strong><br />
Graciela<br />
G. García<br />
Romney & Co.<br />
Romney y todos sus compinches<br />
invocan a la Catrina<br />
pa’ llevarse pobres, pinches<br />
que no entran en su doctrina<br />
“Dreamers,” gays, viejos enfermos<br />
pa’ fuera del porcentaje<br />
que existen en los extremos<br />
arruinando su mensaje<br />
Escuchen la ideología<br />
del millonario ratero<br />
que compra las compañías<br />
y las manda al extranjero<br />
Despedir a los empleados<br />
es lo que él más disfruta<br />
invierte en otros mercados<br />
su dinero es su batuta<br />
Pero Catrina lo escucha<br />
viendo sus contradicciones<br />
porque ella es la más trucha,<br />
le castiga sus acciones<br />
“—No vamos al extranjero,<br />
tú y todos tus compinches<br />
sino al puritito infierno,<br />
Lucifer los hará chinches.”<br />
–Elvia E. Niebla y<br />
Rita E. Urquijo-Ruiz<br />
La División<br />
Andamos requetemal, ¿acaso habrá solución?<br />
los banqueros siempre gordos, nos metieron en cajón<br />
y por poco son la causa de otra gran depression.<br />
La prensa, televisión y medios de propaganda<br />
dedican, por la avaricia, a destruir la Nación.<br />
La solución es “la Dama Testaruda”,<br />
ese conjunto de huesos que no presume hermosura.<br />
-Yeska, ASARO Arts Collective<br />
Calavera Electoral<br />
Yo le pido a mi Diosito<br />
que Obama y Rommy la piensen…<br />
Que a los pobres inmigrantes–<br />
que creen que ellos no sienten!!!<br />
y muchos se van a la tumba<br />
y en el camino retumban<br />
Ojala que la conciencia<br />
los haga recapacitar<br />
Que llegue a la presidencia<br />
el que mas sepa que dar<br />
y eso los lleve a la Gloria<br />
y el dia que los entierren<br />
se oigan cuetes en su nombre<br />
y le recuerden como un buen hombre.<br />
-Lucia Bolanos<br />
El Rico Sabe a Chicken<br />
Con el pan en la boca<br />
los Ricos no saben lo que<br />
es el hambre, ni la rata.<br />
Los Pobres preguntan por qué.<br />
La Muerte dice “no se”.<br />
Llegó el día –los pobres se juntan<br />
y se arman en una discusión.<br />
Que dónde pone el Rico su pan<br />
Que cómo se creen muy chingónes<br />
Que si siempre serán muy huevónes.<br />
La Muerte escucha a la gente.<br />
Dice “quien esta presente”.<br />
Mira y ve sólo inocentes<br />
Mexicanos y Chicanos<br />
Los Morenos y los Indios.<br />
“Ya se armó!” grita ella.<br />
“Vamos asar “Stockbroker Steak”<br />
“Wallstreet Beef” con mucha salsa.<br />
A los Pobres les vamos dar “un break.”<br />
A Los Ricos hay que asar.”<br />
“Miren” dicen la Muerte<br />
“Así se mata el hambre.<br />
Cómanse a los muy Ricos.<br />
De sus gustos aprovechen.<br />
El Rico sabe a Chicken”.<br />
–Enrique Sánchez<br />
–Elva Pérez Treviño<br />
Para Mitt Romney<br />
El Mitt Romney estaba hablando<br />
en uno de esos shows<br />
cuando de sorpresa entró una calaca<br />
y le preguntó: “¿Oyes Mitt Romeny,<br />
qué negocios tienes tú<br />
sobre mis ovarios?”<br />
El Romney se asustó….<br />
“A ver… ven conmigo”<br />
le dijo la calaca<br />
“Vamos a quitarte tu pene y…<br />
te vamos a regalar tu propia vagina<br />
para que sepas como se siente…<br />
A ver si te da vergüenza…<br />
de andar metiendote donde no te pertenece.<br />
A ver cómo te gusta, ¡cuando el gobierno<br />
se meta en la tuya!<br />
Los mellizos<br />
Muy ufanos los Gemelos fueron a la gran reunión,<br />
los escogió su partido por poseer gran tesón.<br />
El presidente nombró al que tenemos de alcalde;<br />
demócratas están de acuerdo y todo está bien padre.<br />
Calacas anda chiflada y hasta se vistió con moño.<br />
Aprovecha la ocasión, representa a San Antonio,<br />
mas su interés son los Cuates y los quiere sin encono<br />
www.carlosbarberena.com<br />
–Enrique Sánchez<br />
Calavera Electoral<br />
–Donde La Muerte, La Muy<br />
Catrina, se lleva en un corcel<br />
a un tal por cual.<br />
Mitt Romney Ricachón<br />
La Muerte, La Muy Catrina,<br />
llega montando un caballo<br />
del Averno de bambilas,<br />
trotador de gran tamaño,<br />
al cuartel de la campaña<br />
electoral de Mitt Romney<br />
y en vez de beber champaña<br />
y decir ¡Viva Romney, honey!<br />
este día seis de noviembre<br />
de la elección presidencial<br />
donde salta como liebre<br />
el candidato excepcional<br />
–Dolores Zapata Murff<br />
La Muerte, La Muy Catrina,<br />
lo acorrala en un rincón,<br />
y le dice ufana y ladina:<br />
“hasta aquí llegaste, ricachón<br />
agarra todas tus chivas<br />
y tu sarta de mentiras<br />
que hoy te vas al corralón<br />
hecho huesos por cabrón<br />
por negarle luz al Dream Act<br />
y así pretender apagar<br />
el sueño de tanto soñador<br />
joven tan emprendedor”<br />
La Muerte, La Muy Catrina,<br />
la vemos arreando un buey<br />
que dice que en esta vida<br />
llamaban Mitt Romney honey<br />
- © <strong>2012</strong> Francisco X. Alarcón<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA Nov <strong>2012</strong> • Vol. 25 Issue 9 • Page 13
A mi Santi querido<br />
Santiaguito, Santiaguito, la muerte hiciste correr<br />
Eres todo un diablito que a tu madre hiciste ver<br />
Lo precioso de esta vida que jamás es aburrida<br />
Pues la tristeza rondaba mientras yo a ti te esperaba.<br />
Me regresaste los bríos en momentos muy sombríos<br />
Y agradezco al infinito te mandara, mi angelito.<br />
Eres todo mi universo, mi pequeño tan bonito<br />
Y por eso en un ratito, te dedico este mi verso.<br />
–Rocio Delgado<br />
Pa’ que te cuides mi Fer!<br />
Todo el tiempo se quejaba mi querido Don Fernando<br />
Porque todo le dolía y achacoso siempre andaba<br />
Hasta que por fin un día, la huesuda contrariada<br />
Mientras mucho trabajaba, se lo llevó a la fregada.<br />
Se quedó Fercho muy quieto, cuando llegó el esqueleto<br />
“No te asustes Fernandito,” dijo la Parca quedito<br />
“Que vamos al cementerio pa’que descanses en serio.”<br />
Y derechito cargando se lo llevó al camposanto<br />
Mientras su amada en un grito lo despedia con llanto.<br />
–Rocio Delgado<br />
Costumbres-<br />
¿Quién niega que’l menudo no es bueno pa’ la cruda?<br />
¿que el olor y el sabor de una tortilla recién<br />
salida del comal no tiene comparación?.<br />
Con tuétano en la tortilla ¿quién rehusa ese taco?<br />
gorditas rellenas de lo que gusten; chicharrones,<br />
carnitas, frijoles de la olla, un altero de tortillas<br />
acompañados de su salsa picante. Y pa’ cerrar<br />
con broche de oro, un chocolate espumoso con pan<br />
de dulce y también reposteria ¿por qué no?<br />
así me quiero ir y, si viene por mi “La Catrina”,<br />
estoy dispuesto a compartir con ella.<br />
–Enrique Sánchez<br />
A la Mrs. Dominguez<br />
En el rincón de mi escuela cumplo a diario mi deber<br />
Pero ponganme una esquela pues veneno he de beber<br />
Si no pasan mis alumnos el examen estatal<br />
Pues entonces se suponen que soy maestra fatal<br />
Y despues de cuestionar mi etica profesional<br />
A la muerte han de mandar a mi distrito escolar<br />
Fué su condena<br />
Morir en pena<br />
Así que a la sepultura<br />
Se le mandó con dulzura<br />
Pues a la calavera no la llevan a bailar<br />
Ella te lleva hasta tu altar<br />
Donde le celebraremos a la flaca su hazaña<br />
Que a nadie le daña<br />
Primero publicaremos en La Voz éstos mis versos<br />
A los que les he puesto muchos esfuerzos<br />
Luego con chocolate, atole caliente y pan<br />
Gran fiesta harán<br />
Para darte las gracias flaquita fría<br />
Porque le diste su pilón un buen día<br />
El que es villano se le lleva a la fosa<br />
Ahí lo acostamos con esa moza hermosa<br />
Y los que quedamos vivos<br />
Nos sentimos divos<br />
Sabemos como moraleja lo afortunados que “semos”<br />
Así que bien nos portaremos<br />
– “Amokimous”<br />
No se le fue la pista<br />
Ella era muy lista<br />
No necesito chaperón<br />
para la conquista<br />
El fue presa<br />
De su propia cabeza<br />
Pensando que era intocable<br />
La flaca le dio con su sable<br />
Hay chula huesuda<br />
Sí que eres aguda<br />
En la última hora<br />
No das demora<br />
Y nadie te engaña<br />
Pues tienes maña<br />
De karma vestida<br />
Llévatelo a tu guarida<br />
Allá en el cementerio<br />
Te llevaré el salterio<br />
Celebraremos tu hazaña<br />
Hasta por la mañana<br />
–“Amokimous”<br />
Sin embargo me pregunto,<br />
¿qué es realmente lo importante?<br />
¿Tener buenos resultados o una mente brillante?<br />
Así en lugar de estresarme por un número sacar<br />
Con la calaca yo bailo y me enfoco en enseñar.<br />
Revisemos prioridades y hagamonos recordar<br />
Que es nuestro objetivo ver a los niños triunfar.<br />
–Rocio Delgado<br />
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Kingsville<br />
A.D.O.B.E.<br />
TAMUK <strong>Calaveras</strong><br />
Texas A&M University @ Kingsville<br />
Entre San Anto y el Valle<br />
Cerca de Corpus Christi,<br />
- el cuerpo de Cristo / Body of Christ?<br />
Un área que tal vez causa temor<br />
Un área conocida<br />
Por lo que ha sucedido<br />
Los que tienen poder<br />
Opresores de la gente<br />
Bandidos<br />
La tierra robada<br />
La cultura y la lengua<br />
Por pronto se acaba.<br />
–Norma Guzmán<br />
“Tenure Track”<br />
Cada año, tratando de continuar<br />
Parece que el trabajo nunca va acabar.<br />
Hasta que el día llega -<br />
Parece que ya no se puede aguantar a<br />
Cada año tener que presentar,<br />
Investigar y reportar,<br />
Siguiendo a enseñar<br />
Los alumnos llenan los SRIs<br />
Los profesores se ponen a revisar<br />
Los portafolios se tienen que entregar<br />
Tal vez podremos avanzar<br />
Otro año mas…<br />
–Norma Guzmán<br />
A Doctorate Organization in Bilingual Education<br />
Bonito nombre que llama la atención de la Huesuda<br />
“Qué es eso?” pregunta con duda<br />
“Sal de aquí”, Mónica ordena con voz aguda.<br />
“A mí no me hables así, muchachita<br />
Mejor quiero, de este grupón, ver al Presidente<br />
Este nombre, Adobe es mío, dijo ella, repelente:<br />
“Asociación de Diablitos Ordenados por la Batalla Eterna”<br />
“No, señora Hueso, sálgase de aquí”, dice Armando!<br />
La Calaca y la Muerte, por ahí pasaban con la Catrina<br />
Y al Presidente se llevaron al otro mundo<br />
En Huesuda convirtieron a Mónica<br />
–Julien Ekiaka<br />
La Calaca Flaca<br />
La calaca flaca a dieta<br />
nunca engordará<br />
porque aunque le traigan<br />
comida frita<br />
sus arterias no se taparán.<br />
¡Calaca anoréxica!<br />
¡Calaca de hueso eres!<br />
¡Quién fuera tú<br />
que flaca se queda<br />
aunque tu carne muera!<br />
–Erika Gutiérrez Campos<br />
Ah! Bendita mamacita<br />
A veces contenta<br />
Y a todas, mortal<br />
¿Por qué me persigues tanto<br />
Si ni siquiera fuí aval?<br />
De buenas me das un beso<br />
de malas con un tropiezo<br />
en el corazón y rezo<br />
que no me quiebres los huesos<br />
sobre un charco o un panal<br />
Ya sé que andas tras de mí<br />
Pero seguiré corriendo<br />
Y no por el miedo, entiende<br />
Tengo todavía quehacer<br />
Si me llegas a alcanzar<br />
por el oscio que te invade<br />
Me llevarás no sin antes<br />
Llevarte un moquete fuerte<br />
y hasta un puñal en la frente<br />
‘pa que sepas qué se siente.<br />
Guzman y su T.A. a Harlingen<br />
Día soleado, en un coche rentado<br />
La Profesora Guzmán me lleva sentado<br />
De Kingsville a Harlingen, camino embrujado.<br />
Los alumnos –y nosotros como en un ataúd cerrado–<br />
Preguntones y enojados por la tarea, caminaron descalzos.<br />
Alertada, la Calaca apareció y les dió chanclazos<br />
La profesora defendió a sus alumnos con zapatazos,<br />
Pero pasó la muerte y a todos nos dió riflazos.<br />
“Por revoltosos e inquietos”, dijo la Muerte<br />
Al panteón, llevó aún al más fuerte<br />
Nadie sobrevive ni por suerte:<br />
Eso es el destino de la gente”<br />
–Julien Ekiaka<br />
www.brandonmaldonado.com<br />
Ruben Olague
We remember our dear friend<br />
and fierce voice who moved<br />
amongst us for too short a<br />
time. She touched all who<br />
knew her; my own life is<br />
better for having known her<br />
smile and her generous heart.<br />
This poem is dedicated to her<br />
memory. –Norma Cantú<br />
Tatiana de la Tierra<br />
Fierce fighter, amiga,<br />
Your marvelous presence like the mountains<br />
Of your home in the heart of Colombia<br />
Came to me in spurts amidst the conference<br />
Chaos of el Mundo Zurdo, MALCS. NACCS. And I<br />
Seek only to be at peace with who you were,<br />
who you are,<br />
To know the whole of life at the core of your<br />
Woman-loving heart;<br />
You labored in the fields of books<br />
Of words, of stories, of an indefatigable<br />
Search for peace,<br />
And tranquility,<br />
An equipoise like no other.<br />
In your presence and in your deep gaze<br />
A sea navigable only in your raft of love,<br />
Those who loved you live embraced<br />
In your absence<br />
By the totality of life<br />
The totality of death.<br />
Jim Isaman<br />
Stella Marroquin<br />
In 1986, I was a freshman in colle ge when I met Jim Isaman. He was the first<br />
gay person I had ever met and the first person I came out to. I was an insecure 17<br />
year old, struggling with multiple identities. When I finally got the guts to come<br />
out, I came to him with excitement as well as trepidation. I worried that he didn’t<br />
believe me; that he was going to tell me that it was a phase. When I told him that I<br />
was gay, he let out an excited yell and he gave<br />
me the biggest hug telling me, “welcome to<br />
the family!”<br />
Keith Haring<br />
A kind and sweet man, he was very<br />
active in the burgeoning LGBT community in San Antonio. I was immediately attracted to his Jim Isaman<br />
sense of community, his vision of a united “queerdom” (his word) and his belief that love and<br />
humor can make a difference. He influenced me to get active in the LGBT community and<br />
accompanied me as I started becoming an activist. He joined me in organizing the first gay<br />
group on campus. He was there as I became more active in city and state-wide groups. He was<br />
a mentor, a roommate, and my brother. Jim went to school to be an architect but left before his<br />
last semester when he found out he had AIDS. That was in 1989, during in the height of AIDS<br />
fear, discrimination and hysteria. He was afraid to tell me he had AIDS, although I knew he was<br />
sick. With fear in his eyes, he told me he had AIDS. I hugged him and said, “You are family,<br />
remember!” We cried and laughed that evening. It was one of the best moments of my life.<br />
He tackled his new life with AIDS with hope, creativity and love. He called himself a<br />
“professional guinea pig” since he was one of the first people to be put on AZT. It took an<br />
hour every morning, noon and evening for him to take his medications, supplements and<br />
concoctions. In 1990, the odds of Jim dying from AIDS within a year of diagnosis was almost<br />
a given. But his full-time job was to beat AIDS. Although he was very sick and in the hospital<br />
many times, he outlived his parents, and most friends with AIDS. He outlived Reagan, which<br />
was a source of pride. He died in 2009 but he beat AIDS –with an infectious laughter, with<br />
passion for truth and justice, with strength and he beat AIDS with love.<br />
– Dulce Benavides (originally published in the theatlantic.tumblr.com)<br />
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Para Franco Ontiveros. QEPD<br />
Aquí te escribo una calavera<br />
–que te mando de esta dimensión,<br />
entre la risa y el miedo, el agua,<br />
el viento, el sol y el fuego<br />
te recuerdo a ti.<br />
Juntos fuimos embajadores del arte,<br />
en tu querido San Anto.<br />
Te estacionabas en un sitio y<br />
te despedías: “Thank you for coming”...<br />
En cada fiesta y evento cargabas<br />
tu encendedor y fumabas.<br />
A mi me pegaba el patatús y<br />
me decías, “Tu dale manita, tu dale,<br />
¡Y si no quieren, pos no les des!”<br />
Es cierto, Franco, la amistad<br />
es para siempre como los recuerdos.<br />
Como tú te fuiste, también<br />
se fue el gran club de Saluté.<br />
Entré y te vi, todavía allí<br />
–en el altar con otros amigos,<br />
que viven contigo en el más allá…<br />
Esteban cantando – Randy y sus blues<br />
–Los huevos rancheros de Manny<br />
y Chuck Ramírez, too!<br />
Ernie, that’s what I called my dad. –I WON, daddy! I WON…<br />
the right to honor you and myself with our name. You once told<br />
me: “Mija, when it comes down to it…all you really have in the<br />
end is your name and your honor.”<br />
When I was told by Texas A&M officials at San Antonio,<br />
“NO, you cannot use your maiden name on your diploma” it was<br />
like another blow in my gut. “No, they said, because Zapata is not<br />
on your driver’s license. And, therefore, not your legal name...” I<br />
took them my birth certificate and explained to them that –if they<br />
wanted to go that route…neither was my<br />
first name, Maria!<br />
Back and forth we went<br />
–seems like it never ends. I<br />
told them about my past,<br />
being from the generation<br />
that got our mouths washed<br />
out with soap if we dared to<br />
speak Spanish. I told them<br />
about the kid on the bus<br />
who spit out the window as I<br />
exited and called me a greasy<br />
Mexican. I told them how<br />
our gringa teachers changed<br />
our names. I told them I<br />
Nos nombraste “la raza sin casa”–<br />
tú y yo siempre juntos.<br />
Aquel tiempo que nos fuimos a “los tracks”<br />
manejaste de reversa y aún<br />
nos empujaron los fantasmas<br />
Ofrenda to my Father: Ernesto T. Zapata<br />
y la risa nos atacaba.<br />
Como dice el chant,<br />
“Aquí estamos y no nos vamos”<br />
“La raza sin casa” –arriba en el cielo.<br />
– Mariana Vásquez<br />
had been discriminated against all my life, for being of Mexican<br />
descent and now for being a woman. I told them I would NOT<br />
allow them to continue to discriminate against me. I told them I<br />
paid the tuition, I earned the degree and for that matter the diploma<br />
and that I would have my maiden name on it even if I had to file a<br />
lawsuit. “But our policy….” they said. I told them that it sounded<br />
to me like they were closing ranks when they told me it was in the<br />
best interests of the University to not allow me to use my name. I<br />
told them their policy reeked of cultural discrimination and gender<br />
bias. In the end they agreed to allow it. I got it in writing from the<br />
VP and CFO of Admissions. Conmigo no chingan…¡no con esta<br />
mujer! Soy fuerte y estoy bien educada.<br />
Dad– I will have my name and I have had your wise words and<br />
guidance to thank. In December I will have Dolores Zapata Murff<br />
on the diploma from Texas A & M even if it is NOT on my license.<br />
And, I know you paid me a visit. I felt your presence when I heard<br />
a duet “Somos Novios” on the ALMA awards –you sang that song<br />
on my wedding day in 1974. La lucha continues, dad.<br />
Note: Maria Dolores Baray Zapata Murff, formerly a board member of<br />
the <strong>Esperanza</strong> and the MujerArtes cooperative, will graduate with an<br />
M.A. in Counseling and will work towards licensure as a Psychotherapist<br />
focusing on the LBGTQ population and people with severe mental illness.<br />
Her parents, Amelia Baray Zapata and Ernesto T. Zapata raised her in<br />
San Antonio.
During the 1990s and early<br />
Ann E. Atwell – ¡Presente! 2000s, Ann Atwell delighted in<br />
November 9, 1921 – July 24, <strong>2012</strong><br />
occasional Elder Hostel travel on<br />
three continents – easily making<br />
friends, some of whom came to<br />
visit her in S.A. She kept up lively correspondence and advocacy through countless<br />
letters to legislators, presidents and on behalf of prisoners of conscience.<br />
Her maternal ancestors migrated from New England to Eagle Pass, Texas, in<br />
the late 19th century. The matriarch of the family’s stately many-galleried house on<br />
a bluff overlooking the Rio Grande was Ann’s grandmother. [picture the scenery<br />
and the era of Like Water for Chocolate] Ann passed much of her childhood on the<br />
frontera. Her mother, briefly married to a military officer stationed nearby, worked<br />
as a dietician in distant cities, earning a living and saving for Ann who was mostly raised by aunts in Alamo Heights/San<br />
Antonio. Dr. Edith Bonnet was a respected physician and Esther Bonnet was a social worker who was founding director of<br />
the Family Service Association of San Antonio. Ann loved to tell stories of camping adventures and driving across the U.S.<br />
and Mexico with her aunt Esther and her life-long partner, Bert. In the late 1980s, Ann became willing caregiver for her.<br />
By her early 20s, Ann had moved away and had started wearing many hats of her own. From the requisite gloves and<br />
dainty, dressy hats of the 50s, Ann’s style became what was simple and functional. Her practical headgear ranged from<br />
colorful indigenous knit caps to broad-brimmed straw hats she wore as she marched in protests and peace vigils –a constant<br />
presence on behalf of nonviolence, human rights and environmental/social justice.<br />
She trained at the pioneering settlement house for immigrants and working poor folk, Chicago’s Hull House and<br />
developed skills in Spanish for service in rural Paraguay and Aguascalientes, Mexico, under a Protestant church’s<br />
sponsorship. Upon returning to Texas––she worked as staff director for the Girl Scouts and in Appalachia she continued<br />
her commitment to voluntary simplicity and living in community on a small stipend. She was assigned by Volunteers in<br />
Education and Social Services to Catholic inner city parishes in Houston and San Antonio assisting the elderly, children and<br />
economically disadvantaged with necessities and access to greater participation as community members and citizens.<br />
Now back to those interchangeable “hats” Ann wore daily from the early 80s until Alzheimer’s brought her activist days<br />
to a close and she entered nursing care. Among the many groups she worked with were: Amnesty International, Audubon<br />
Society, League of Women Voters, Refugee Aid Project, Nature Conservancy, NE Bexar Co. Democrats, Catholic Worker<br />
House, Inner City Development, Visitation House for Women and Children, <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace and Justice Center, Bread<br />
for the World, CROP, Church Women United, NE Senior Assistance Coop and many more. As a<br />
committed non-consumerist and a competent, compassionate social worker and activist for social<br />
change –Ann’s holiday shopping was always done at alternative markets––a great-niece remembers<br />
“receiving” a goat sent to a family in Guatemala–– and yearly shopping at <strong>Esperanza</strong>’s Peace Market.<br />
Ann is survived by an extended family of cousins and their descendants. Her distinctive living legacy<br />
belongs to a multitude of gente who loved and respected and gained from her. Neighbor, Amiga,<br />
Hermana! ¡Vaya con Dios, Compañera Ana! – Carloyn Atkins, August 13, <strong>2012</strong><br />
Nancy Lee Owens Bailey<br />
Condolences from the<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace and Justice<br />
Center staff and buena gente<br />
to our friend and ally, Steve<br />
Bailey, on the recent passing of<br />
his mother, Nancy Lee Owens<br />
Bailey, who was a founding<br />
member of Jump-Start<br />
Performance Co. She leaves<br />
behind her beloved husband of<br />
55 years, Col. Jerry T. Bailey,<br />
USAF Ret. three children, their spouses and grandchildren.<br />
Nancy was a teacher teaching levels from kinder through<br />
high school and volunteered numeous hours in community<br />
service. May she rest in peace.<br />
Duane Albert Poole<br />
Our deepest sympathy to former<br />
boardmember and friend of the<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace and Justice<br />
Center, Gary Poole and his<br />
family on the recent loss of his<br />
father, Duane Albert Poole,<br />
who served in the Navy during<br />
World War II and went on to<br />
start his own small business<br />
that grew into a huge success,<br />
because of his dedication, integrity and hard work. His<br />
generation represents the heyday of America. Duane<br />
leaves behind his beloved wife, Hattie, four children, their<br />
spouses, and grandchildren. Our thoughts are with you in<br />
this time of transition. R.I.P.<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
19
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
20<br />
Remedios Varo<br />
Anna Marie Sanchez, author of<br />
La Leyenda de la Hielera, was born<br />
on the West Side of San Antonio<br />
during the last century. She loves<br />
words, loves to paint, and is the<br />
mother of three grown children<br />
and abuelita of six.<br />
Late, pero sin ese ritmo interno<br />
–causa de la música de tu amor.<br />
Me sostiene, por el momento<br />
dándome vida –el motor de mi cuerpo.<br />
En su espacio –completamente vacío<br />
corren mis tristes lágrimas<br />
–color rojo, llenas de dolor.<br />
Su alma –se largó…<br />
por culpa de la decepción.<br />
Corriendo con lo más mínimo de energía,<br />
–me lo arrancó y te lo entregó.<br />
¿Para qué me sirve este corazón calavera?<br />
Tal vez sí…, tal vez no…<br />
Todo es cuestión de otro amor!<br />
–Caroline Rivera<br />
La leyenda de la Hielera<br />
Había una casita cerca de un monte donde vivían tres hermanitas y tres<br />
hermanitos. El papá quedó viudo y los niños huérfanos de mamá. El padre con<br />
un dolor en el alma tenia que dejar a los niños solitos cuando iba a trabajar. El<br />
padre se iba a trabajar duro todos los días, viendose obligado a dejar lo niños<br />
solitos sin bañarles o darles de comer. Los niños se entretenían jugando para<br />
apaciguar el hambre y la ausencia de su madre a quien extrañaban con cuerpo y alma.<br />
Un día llegó el papá del trabajo cansado y hambriento. Se sorprendió cuando entró<br />
a la casita para encontrar que todo estaba limpio; los niños bañados y que había sabrosa<br />
comida calientita sobre la mesa. Al abrir la hielera encontró que había leche y alimentos<br />
para todos. El sorprendido señor muy agradecido y feliz, preguntó a los niños que quién<br />
era responsible por la milagrosa transformación. Los niños encogieron los hombros y no<br />
dijeron nada. El papá muy cansado y bien cenado besó a los niños y se fué a dormir.<br />
Los niños se amontonaron en su propia cama como lo hacían cada noche y se durmieron<br />
también.<br />
Asi pasaron muchos meses mientras los niños crecian saludables. Cada día para cuando<br />
llegaba el papá, los niños habían aprendido algo nuevo de números, de letras y de rezos. Le<br />
contaban al papá de cuentos de hadas, historias de angelitos, de milagros tras milagros y<br />
cuentos muy bonitos. La hielera siempre estaba llena. Un día regresó el papá del trabajo y<br />
encontró frente a su casita un jardín lleno de flores y verduras. Alrededor de la casita había<br />
crisantemos de todos colores y rosas blancas y rojas y amarillas en plena floración. Nada<br />
de esto estaba allí cuando el padre salió para el trabajo.<br />
Pasaron tres años y en el día de los muertos, los niños cortaron flores de todas la clases<br />
y colores. Al cortar la flores, nuevas flores brotaban en las plantas. La familia llevó las<br />
flores al cementerio y allí las arreglaron sobre la tumba de la madre. Luego le hablaron y<br />
rezaron por ella.<br />
Al siguiente día el padre besó a sus hijos y partió al trabajo. Más bien eso era que él<br />
quería que los niños creyeran, pues en realidad se escondió tras un arbusto para espiar la<br />
casita. Dentro de la casita se oían risas y conversaciones alegres. Poco antes que cayera la<br />
noche se abrió la puerta, los niños salieron y en el antejardín formaron un círculo. Alguien<br />
estaba en el centro del círculo. Esta persona y los niños fueron rodedos de bellos colores<br />
vibrantes. El papá no puedo aguantar su curiosidad; salió del escondite y se acercó al<br />
círculo. En este él vió a su esposa en carne viva. Se miraron a los ojos en los cuales se<br />
Corazón Calavera<br />
reflejaba el amor. Con mucho cariño<br />
la mamá abrazó y besó a cada niño.<br />
Luego abrazó a su marido y les<br />
dijo a todos: “les quiero con toda el<br />
alma y corazón pero ya me voy a<br />
descansar en paz. Síganse amando<br />
y portandose bien. Cuiden a su papá<br />
a quien quise y sigo queriendo aún<br />
después de la muerte. El me dió el<br />
regalo de su amor y unos hermosos<br />
hijos”. Poco a poco su imagen se<br />
fué desvaneciendo hasta no verse<br />
más. Al fin le contaron los niños<br />
al padre el motivo por el cual no le<br />
habían dado una explicación de los<br />
milagros en la casa. Le dijeron que<br />
su mamá les advirtió que el día en<br />
que su esposo la viera ya no iba a<br />
poder regresar. Aún así, les dejaba<br />
los recuerdos de todos aquellos<br />
momentos que pasaron juntos. Y<br />
colorín colorado este cuento se ha<br />
acabado. v
*To reserve a space for an ofrenda<br />
honoring loved ones who<br />
have passed, call <strong>Esperanza</strong> at<br />
210.228.0201 before Nov. 1st<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace and Justice Center’s<br />
Stella Marroquin<br />
Thursday,<br />
November 1, <strong>2012</strong>,<br />
6-9 pm @ Casa de Cuentos,<br />
816 S. Colorado<br />
• Community <strong>Ofrendas</strong> Exhibit*<br />
• Pan de muerto • Ponche de muerto<br />
• Reading of calaveras • Literary<br />
ofrendas • y musica en vivo<br />
La campaña de Obama y Romney<br />
¡La chancluda no paraba, en mucho entierro andaba!<br />
De aquí pa’ allá, dándole duro a la chamba<br />
Su guadaña: ¡zip, zap!, ¡sus huesos le bamboleaban!<br />
De hospital al cementerio, por todo el país no paraba.<br />
¿Quién me está dando tanta chamba?<br />
Se preguntó la dientona.<br />
La esquelética fue con los vivos<br />
a averiguar que pasaba,<br />
pues era la falta de empleos, pocos salarios,<br />
recortes a programas y despidos masivos ,<br />
y pocos alimentos en los hogares.<br />
Además esta contienda de Obama y Romney,<br />
jugando con la vida del pueblo.<br />
Sus cuencas vacías pero pispiretas los observaba,<br />
los perseguía y los oía, su osamenta cascabeleaba.<br />
Los acompañó por todo el país.<br />
Ya no le hagan más al cuento,<br />
la mera neta ya no prometan,<br />
por que los dos valen pa’ pura... corneta,<br />
mejor en pleno debate, ¡yo les daré con el bate!<br />
–Araceli Herrera<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
21
* community meetings *<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
22<br />
Amnesty International #127<br />
meets at various sites during the<br />
year. Contact Arthur Dawes at 210-<br />
213-5919 for details.<br />
Anti-War Peace Vigil every Thursday<br />
(since 9/11/2001) from 4-5pm<br />
@ Flores & Commerce Contact Tim<br />
Duda at 210.822.4525 or timduda@aol.com<br />
Bexar Co. Green Party info@bexargreens.org<br />
or call 210.471.1791.<br />
Celebration Circle meets Sundays,<br />
11am @ JumpStart at Blue Star Arts<br />
Complex. Meditation, Weds @ 7:30<br />
pm @ Quaker Meeting House, 7052<br />
Vandiver. 210.533-6767<br />
DIGNITY S.A. mass at 5:30 pm,<br />
Sun. @ Beacon Hill Presbyterian<br />
Church, 1101 W. Woodlawn. Call<br />
210.735.7191.<br />
Energia Mia meets every 3rd Sunday,<br />
4 - 5:30pm @ Oblate School<br />
of Theology, 285 Oblate Dr. Call<br />
210.849.8121<br />
Fuerza Unida, 710 New Laredo,<br />
Hwy. 210.927.2297, www.lafuerzaunida.org<br />
Habitat for Humanity meets 1st<br />
Tues. for volunteer orientation, 6pm,<br />
HFHSA Office @ 311 Probandt.<br />
S.A. International Woman’s Day<br />
March & Rally planning meetings<br />
are underway! Check www.sawomenwillmarch.org<br />
or 210.533.2729<br />
LGBT Youth Group meets at MCC<br />
Church, 611 E. Myrtle on Sundays<br />
at 10:30am. 210.472.3597<br />
Metropolitan Community<br />
Church in San Antonio (MCCSA)<br />
611 East Myrtle, has services &<br />
Sunday school @ 10:30am. Call<br />
210.599.9289.<br />
PFLAG, meets 1st Thurs @ 7pm, 1st<br />
Unitarian Universalist Church, Gill<br />
Rd/Beryl Dr. Call 210.655.2383.<br />
PFLAG Español meets 1st Tuesdays<br />
@ 2802 W. Salinas, 7pm. Call<br />
210.849.6315<br />
Proyecto Hospitalidad Liturgy<br />
each Thursday at 7 pm at 325<br />
Courtland. Call 210.736.3579.<br />
The Rape Crisis Center, 7500<br />
US Hwy 90 W. Hotline @ 210.349-<br />
7273. 210.521.7273 or email Drominishi@rapecrisis.com<br />
The Religious Society of Friends<br />
meets Sundays @ 10 am @ The<br />
Friends Meeting House, 7052 N.<br />
Vandiver. 210.945.8456.<br />
San Antonio’s Communist Party<br />
USA holds open meetings 3-5 pm<br />
2nd Sundays at Bazan Public Library<br />
Meeting Room, 2200 W. Commerce.<br />
Contact: juanchostanford@<br />
yahoo.com<br />
S.A. Gender Association meets<br />
1st & 3rd Thursdays, 6-9pm @ 611<br />
E. Myrtle, Metropolitan Community<br />
Church, downstairs. www.sagender.org<br />
Shambhala Buddhist Meditation<br />
Center classes are on Tuesdays at<br />
7pm, & Sun. at 11:30 am. at 1114<br />
So. St. Mary’s. Call 210.222.9303.<br />
The Society of Latino and Hispanic<br />
Writers SA meets 2nd Mondays,<br />
7 pm @ Barnes & Noble, San<br />
Pedro Crossing.<br />
S.N.A.P. (Survivors Network of<br />
those Abused by Priests). Contact<br />
Barbara at 210.725.8329.<br />
Voice for Animals Contact<br />
210.737.3138 or www.voiceforanimals.org<br />
for meeting times<br />
Make a tax-deductible<br />
donation.<br />
for more info call 210.228.0201<br />
Be Part of a<br />
Progressive Movement<br />
in San Antonio<br />
¡Todos Somos <strong>Esperanza</strong>!<br />
Start your <strong>2012</strong><br />
monthly donations now!<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> works to bring awareness and action<br />
on issues relevant to our communities. With our<br />
vision for social, environmental, economic and<br />
gender justice, <strong>Esperanza</strong> centers the voices and<br />
experiences of the poor & working class, women,<br />
queer people and people of color. We hold pláticas<br />
and workshops; organize political actions; present<br />
exhibits and performances and document and<br />
preserve our cultural histories. We consistently<br />
challenge City Council and the corporate powers of<br />
the city on issues of development, low-wage jobs,<br />
gentrification, clean energy and more.<br />
It takes all of us to keep the <strong>Esperanza</strong> going. When<br />
you contribute monthly to the <strong>Esperanza</strong> you are<br />
making a long-term commitment to the movement<br />
for progressive change in San Antonio, allowing<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong> to sustain and expand our programs.<br />
Monthly donors can give as little as $5 and as much<br />
as $500 a month or more.<br />
What would it take for YOU to become a monthly<br />
donor? Call or come by the <strong>Esperanza</strong> to learn how.<br />
¡<strong>Esperanza</strong> vive! ¡La lucha sigue!<br />
Call 210.228.0201 or email<br />
esperanza@esperanzacenter.org for more info<br />
$35 La Voz subscription<br />
Please use my donation for the<br />
Rinconcito de <strong>Esperanza</strong>
Notas Y Más<br />
November <strong>2012</strong><br />
The Dean’s Distinguished Lecture Series<br />
of the The UTSA College of Pubic Policy<br />
presents Defending the Right to Vote:<br />
Today’s Challenges with John Tanner,<br />
former Chief of the Voting Section of the<br />
Justice Dept’s Civil Rights Division,Nov.<br />
1st from 5:30-7 pm at UTSA’s Aula Canaria<br />
Auditorium in the Buena Vista<br />
Building at UTSA downtown. Contact<br />
copp@utsa.edu or 210.458.2530.<br />
The Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center is<br />
proud to present an Atta Girl Production<br />
of Detained in the Desert by Josefina Lopez<br />
October 6 through November 4at the<br />
Guadalupe Theater, 1301 Guadalupe St.<br />
Call 210.535.4641 or visit www.detained.<br />
brownpapertickets.com for tickets.<br />
The S.A. Communist Party USA will<br />
meet Sunday, Nov. 11, 3-5 pm @ the Bazan<br />
Library to discuss The Path Ahead<br />
after the November Elections. (see p. 22)<br />
The film documentary, Things We Don’t<br />
Talk About: Women’s stories from the<br />
Red Tent, by award winning filmmaker<br />
Isadora Gabrielle Leidenfrost, PhD. will<br />
screen at 1pm Saturday, Nov. 11th at<br />
the San Antonio Central Library, 600<br />
Soledad. Call Cynthia at 210.207.2500 or<br />
check www.redtentmovie.com<br />
The National Association of Chicana<br />
and Chicano Scholars (NACCS)-Tejas<br />
Poetry Prize Committee is seeking nominations<br />
for an outstanding poetry collection<br />
published in <strong>2012</strong> by a Tejan@ poet.<br />
Send copies of the nominated work postmarked<br />
no later than November 15th locally<br />
to: Norma E. Cantú Dept. of English<br />
at UTSA, One UTSA Circle, San Antonio,<br />
TX 78249.<br />
The Tejas Foco of NACCS (National<br />
Association for Chicana and Chicano<br />
Studies), Chican@ Studies, ¡Ahora! on<br />
Join us for our monthly concert series with acclaimed singer/songwriter Azul at<br />
Hays St.<br />
Bridge<br />
Calavera<br />
by Zomb-one<br />
“Calacas,” the purveyor of death<br />
Surveyed her world of the dead.<br />
“I need more cadavers,” she said<br />
As she slowly drew a deep breath.<br />
A bridge to the underworld, she thought<br />
Would certainly increase the population<br />
And beautify this god awful infernal nation<br />
Whose byways with obstacles are fraught.<br />
Lady Death looked for un puente–<br />
Something historic, sturdy and old.<br />
There was one close by she was told<br />
That no longer was to serve la gente.<br />
Brief news items on upcoming community events.<br />
Send info for Notas y Más to: lavoz@esperanzacenter.org<br />
or mail to: 922 San Pedro, San Antonio, TX 78212.<br />
The deadline is the 8th of each month.<br />
canciones de José Alfredo Jimenez<br />
Saturday, Nov 17 th 8pm<br />
$5 más o menos @ <strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
A bridge gifted to San Anto, our city<br />
Paid for with our people’s money<br />
With land for a park given for free!<br />
But for the public it’s not to be.<br />
Community Based Pedagogies, Scholarship<br />
and Activism is on Feb. 21-23, 2013.<br />
Proposals due Dec. 1st to mas@utpa.edu.<br />
See:www.naccs.org/naccs/Tejas.asp<br />
Native Texan, Rudy Ch. Garcia, has a<br />
new novel out –The Closet of Discarded<br />
Dreams that author, Ernest Hogan, says<br />
demonstrates how Chicano is a scientific<br />
fiction state of being. García is a foundercontributor<br />
to www.LaBloga.blogspot.<br />
com, the Chicano literary website. More<br />
info on García can be found at: www.<br />
discarded-dreams.com<br />
Our city council in all of its wisdom<br />
Is turning it over for a micro-brewry<br />
Inspite of protests, petitions and fury<br />
They’re giving it all to a high roller bum.<br />
La Katrina declared, “It’s perfect!”<br />
–A bridge and council cadavers, to boot!<br />
She took them off to the kingdom of soot<br />
–A consequence of a lack of respect.<br />
Now available! A bilingual<br />
picture book<br />
“Manuela’s Bread<br />
Doll” by María<br />
Sevilla for Día de los<br />
muertos. Hardcover is<br />
$14.95 and is available<br />
from buildingbridgesbooks@gmail.com<br />
Special thanks to Mario<br />
Rodríguez of Sugar Rush<br />
for contributing catering<br />
services at recent Noche<br />
Azul concerts. Contact him<br />
@ 210-863-0132.<br />
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
23
LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • November <strong>2012</strong> Vol. 25 Issue 9•<br />
<strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
Peace and Justice<br />
Center presents<br />
Friday &<br />
Saturday<br />
23 rd Annual<br />
International<br />
Painting by Catalina Gárate García<br />
Saturday, November 10 th 7 pm<br />
Book Premiere & Celebration of Women:<br />
Rebozos, Poesia y Performance<br />
with the author, San Antonio Poet Laureate,<br />
Carmen Tafolla & special guests<br />
@ <strong>Esperanza</strong> Peace & Justice Center<br />
La Voz de <strong>Esperanza</strong><br />
922 San Pedro San Antonio TX 78212<br />
210.228.0201 • fax: 210.228.0000<br />
www.esperanzacenter.org<br />
Non-Profit Org.<br />
US Postage<br />
PAID<br />
San Antonio, TX<br />
Permit #332<br />
Haven’t opened La Voz in a while? Prefer to read it online? Wrong address?<br />
TO CANCEL A SUBSCRIPTION EMAIL: lavoz@esperanzacenter.org CALL: 210.228.0201<br />
Merca do de Paz<br />
@ 922 San Pedro,<br />
San Antonio, Texas<br />
10am-6pm<br />
Peace Ma rket<br />
Nov 23 rd<br />
Nov 24 th